Even If

“Is he all right?” Shelley asked.

Clay arched an eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Does he sound all right?”

Shelley winced. Bob only played Rush when he was in a particularly foul mood. He’d played YYZ for a week straight after Carolyn left.

“Should I go talk to him?” Shelley asked.

Clay shook his head. “We got it.” He headed up the stairs, pushed open Bob’s bedroom door. He winced at the onslaught of cymbals and waited for his brother to notice him.

He wondered why he hadn’t noticed how thin Bob had become.

“Hey Bob, what’s going on?”

The spin on around-the-world only got louder.

Clay sighed. “Oy, brother, conas atá tú?”

Bob caught the ride cymbal mid-strike and spun around. His expression was frighteningly blank. “Did you come here just to bother me with stupid questions?”

Clay flinched at the viciousness in his brother’s tone. “Bobby, we know you’re upset --”

“I don’t think upset begins to cover it, the way drunk doesn’t really cover it when Scott comes home caoch oltá these days.”

“So maybe he’s taking Carolyn’s absence harder than expected --”

Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Why is this happening to me? First Carolyn leaves me, and now - this. What did I ever do to deserve any of this?”

Clay reached out, settled a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He was glad when Bob didn’t automatically shake him off. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes this just - happens. And you have me, right? Automatic, perfectly-matched bone marrow donor.”

Bob lunged to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hands tapping a nervous rhythm on his thighs. His arms and wrists were bruised, the weals from his cymbals rebounding on him when he wasn’t quick enough. Bob looked like an abused child. Clay had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.

“This isn’t fair!” Bob flung his hands up. “Seriously - my life is some sort of sick joke. First Dad, then Carolyn, and now this. I’m pretty sure it can’t get worse, but if it can, it will.”

Clay’s brow furrowed. “What about Dad?”

Bob shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands curled into fists, and he eyed a spot on the wall with too much fixedness for Clay’s liking. Dan had the best punch by far, and Bob was more likely to kick while sparring, but he wasn’t above punching something when he was in a mood.

“What did I do, Clay? I had to have done something.” Bob’s voice was low, venomous. “Do you know how much it hurts, the ringing in my head? Or when someone touches me and I bruise and it aches for days? Some nights I wake up choking on my own blood.”

Clay bit his lip again.

Bob’s eyes glittered manically. “I’d better have done something to deserve this, because if I didn’t someone is going to pay. Even if I have to die to face him.”

(500 words; Rush is a Canadian band with a fantastic, wicked-fast drummer)